


Gardens and Libraries

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Time, I created an entire gay subculture for Ankh-Morpork, M/M, Slow Burn, also homophobia as a concept doesn’t exist bc this is a Fictional Universe whoo!, bc if there’s no proof otherwise that means everything is gay, some cameos from the Times trio; Sally von Humpeding; Tawnee; Constable Visit; Moist and Adora, we got gays we got lesbians we got polyamory we got bisexuals we got trans peep(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 11:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15024044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: In which Rufus Drumknott and Ponder Stibbons are gay best friends, Vetinari gets inventive with his choice of courting gifts, and happy endings are had all round.





	1. Chapter 1

Rufus Drumknott was a man of habit. This Lord Vetinari had ascertained well before appointing him as his personal secretary.

Rufus Drumknott was a man who had, without fail, taken every second Octeday afternoon from 2pm on the dot (or as on the dot as is possible in Ankh-Morpork) off work for the last six years (despite his contract allocating a full day, “days of rest” being little more than a particularly unrealistic fairytale when one dealt in politics).

Rufus Drumknott was, furthermore, a man who, on those Octeday afternoons, trod the same steps and met the same people at the same time. Vetinari’s spies had complained of this in some depth, even going to far as delegating Drumknott Duty (as it was not-so-fondly called) to lesser of their number, until Vetinari had cheerfully pointed out that, Assassins or no, all men were susceptible to an unfortunate state of death when dropped off a very tall something with their limbs securely bound.

Imagine his surprise, then (this is not difficult, as Vetinari’s surprise is much like the rest of his expressions, to wit, pleasantly interested), when Drumknott approached his desk at around one on a Sunday and informed him that he intended to partake in his allotted full Octeday off, with imminent effect.

Vetinari masterfully swallowed this emotion, his eyebrow only twitching a minute amount (though of course the clerk had noticed; he had made it his business to notice such things) before returning his attention to the papers laid in front of him while calmly replying, “Of course, of course; I am aware you are owed such.” He looked up briefly, quirked a smile. “Enjoy yourself, Drumknott.”

Drumknott was far too professional to _blush_ , per se, but the tips of his ears did go pink. The thoughts at that point racing through the secretary’s head ran to the effect of _How much does he know?_ in a dozen different constructions. Out loud he said, “Thank you, my lord,” and bowed his head graciously, before returning to his desk.

Both then found themselves distracted for the next half hour (any longer than that would technically constitute a political emergency) by thoughts of the other and what he might be thinking.

This is the trouble when two intelligent men with a mutually beneficial working relationship fall in love; so much is unsaid in everyday life that they altogether lose the ability to mention certain things at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Lord Vetinari knew about the Lemming Garden and Biome of Trilobites, of course. Quite apart from being Patrician, and it thus being his _job_ to be aware of all organisations consisting of more than two people (and even some of those), he was rather intimately acquainted with its creation, being himself someone who understood Latin, as the saying goes.* Being in a position of relative power during the latter Snapcase years meant that, in addition to his other work, he had endeavoured to protect those less fortunate than he with a suitably benign organisation. He was glad, in a quiet way, that it had grown into an existence greater than the fear engendered by Snapcase had allowed.

Of course he did not _attend_ , but it paid to keep an eye on the competition – that is, on the general feeling amongst those individuals who had been so persecuted by the previous Patrician on the basis of their love life (which, in typical Snapcase form, was beyond irrational).

Drumknott had been attending fortnightly for six years, but as yet appeared not to have found anyone in his league (according to Vetinari’s sources, largely consisting of his common sense and perhaps a dash of wishful thinking; his clerk could be _exceedingly_ surreptitious when he wished to). Perhaps camaraderie alone was enough, and he in fact had no desire to settle down with someone. Perhaps the lingering fear from the Snapcase years had made them all more cautious, had indeed made the city more dangerous for them despite Vetinari’s best efforts.

Well, there was time yet. Rein in the street crime and the closed-doors crime, rein in the common criminals (with promises of greater prospects) and the uncommon criminals (with for example the Post Office), formulate a system which _worked_ and worked _well_ , and hope that along the way some sense might be imparted to the general populace regarding the appropriate manner in which to approach one’s fellow man (or dwarf, troll, vampire, zombie, werewolf, Igor, orc, or even, dare it be said, woman). Vetinari was determined to reach that ultimate goal, and what Vetinari wanted, Vetinari would, in the long term, get.

Mostly.

People were unfortunately out of the question; employees on another page entirely.

He didn’t quite _sigh_ , being used to the track his mind often took regarding these matters, but he did admit a certain curiosity after both Drumknott’s earlier request, and his pink-tinged ears. Had his- that is to say, had Drumknott finally found someone who fit his standards? Not that Vetinari _knew_ what those standards might be, but given that the prize was _Drumknott_ , his bets were on some kind of lesser god. This wasn’t even hyperbole; there was good money on it at some of the shadier bookies.

Well, there was little point in indulging idle curiosity. He would hear soon enough where Drumknott spent his Octeday – what was the point, after all, in being a tyrant, if you couldn’t surreptitiously monitor your employees’... wellbeing.

Meanwhile, the grubby world of politics awaited with impatiently folded arms. He returned to the trade report in front of him.

 

 

*A popular expression of Ankh-Morporkian homosexual slang which developed due to both the prevalence of Latin in general throughout the city (and thus the potential for such a statement to bypass unfriendly ears), and to the fact that most of Ankh-Morpork’s plebeian residents wouldn’t ordinarily admit to such knowledge in the classic sense (it being very poor for street cred).


	3. Chapter 3

Drumknott approached the foreboding, dark door in, typically, a drizzle so intense that it was more akin to a soggy blanket than any form of weather. A classic Ankh-Morpork pea-souper then – thankfully minus the peas, which the Unseen University had eventually managed to return to whatever dimension they had deserted, thus ending a surplus such as the humble beggars and traders of Ankh-Morpork hadn’t witnessed in decades.

There was something about this street which prompted rain, it seemed. No better location for a plethora of Secret Organisations than one possessed of such incitement to subterfuge. After all, it was easier to pull off a long dark robe in the pouring rain; fewer people littered the streets for long enough to ask questions. It was, however, a shame that the Society of Cactus-Fanciers had rather optimistically set up an outdoor greenhouse; some of their creations could be positively adorable if given a chance to grow.

He knocked on the door. A grate slid back with the requisite grinding, scraping noise.

“The lavender ruler looks kindly on the book of junk.”

“And the flamingo enjoys the dark rains,” came the solemn reply.

“All this is purportedly trying the oysters.”

“But the flowers sing continuously regardless.”

“So this is why the widow is merry.” With that non-sequitur, the heavy door creaked open.

The dark figure of Drumknott entered the dread portal, shaking off the worst of the clinging rain in the antechamber, before stepping fully indoors to be greeted by the golden light and brassy noise of a premises bearing more than a passing resemblance to the University’s Great Hall. Certainly the volume of beverages being quaffed and sipped in equal measures would please even the most demanding of wizards – which was useful given that a number of them were in fact patrons. _Their_ utility had been in dabbling in L-space; the previous premises (or rather the same premises, previously) barely held a score of their number at any one time.

“Rufus, how are you! I do hope work isn’t keeping you tied down? I’m glad you at least get out to see us every now and then, but _really_ ,” the effusive young brunet in the Very well-cut suit paused in the act of sliding the door shut, smiling prettily, “He works you far too hard. Why, I don’t think I’ve seen you this side of noon for, oh, five or six years!”

Drumknott smiled softly back at him, the enthusiasm of the doorman having grown on him over the years until he barely recognised it as jarring. “Benjamin, it’s lovely to see you. Jemina not on door duty tonight?”

The welcoming smile turned rueful and Drumknott recognised a man valiantly refraining from rolling his eyes. “No, she’s had a tiff with the latest girlfriend... something about there being enough waistcoats in the house for two of them, so taking hers is common theft...?” He finally gave in and allowed himself a put-upon sigh. “She’s inside though, said she needed to Drown Her Sorrows and who am I to stop her? Siblings, Rufus, are a bloody nightmare! Free counselling is all I’m good for now!” He took the Sinister Robe from Drumknott as he spoke and hung it with several hundred others in the cloakroom (again, L-space is invaluable in such overpopulated premises). “I’ll catch you later, dear – I’ll probably try and coerce some other poor sod into taking the door soon, there’s only so much damp a man can take before noon on an Octeday.”

“Well, give my best to the husband.”

The brunet’s perpetual grin turned shy of a sudden and he fiddled bashfully with the ring on his finger. “Thanks, Rufus,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to the other’s cheek as he slid past and into the hubbub.

He wove his way through the carelessly dotted tables, with anywhere from two to a dozen occupants (one memorable item hosted a party of some twenty-odd gnomes, but they were decidedly in the minori- ah, that is to say, there were fewer of them). There were the two Times writers and their iconographer all curled together on a seat and a half, murmuring companionably; there were the two new hires up at the Palace whom Drumknott had just _known_ about the second they had whisked their long black skirts through the door; there was the Omnian Watch constable eagerly regaling an – he did a double take –apparently _interested_ young wizard he knew by sight. Well, there was no accounting for taste. He admitted grudgingly to himself that even wizards had their positive traits. Actually, the Garden seemed to be doing quite well out of the Watch; that was surely the vampire Watch sergeant whispering into the positively scarlet ear of a girl who (he was reliably informed) worked in the Pink PussyCat Club.

He found himself nodding amiably to a number of patrons, many of whom he considered good acquaintances, having been a member for eleven years and a regular for six. The change in his habits corresponded directly with the point of his employment in a more personal capacity at the Palace, when he realised that the stern exterior of the Patrician hid a man who found little time for unwarranted discrimination, when there existed ample quarters from which actual danger to the city could potentially derive. This was in stark contrast to the tenure of Mad Lord Snapcase, which for the people of the Garden had spelled a fate worse than death under the reprehensible Section 28.

But everything the man had created had quietly been ignored into non-existence when Vetinari came to power, for as he had once told Drumknott, actively abolishing injust laws simply gave them legitimacy in the eyes of those who would abuse and support them. Better to forget they ever existed. The underground meetings which had been a necessity of life under Snapcase continued, however, such fraternity in the face of adversity not easily forgotten – even if they were now in the same league of infamy as the Secret Association of Egg Studiers (two doors down).*

Drumknott finally located the face he was seeking, predictably tucked away in a corner with a cup of tea (and several empty mugs of varying shapes and sizes) arranged in front of him.

Ponder Stibbons looked up with a smile and a wave from the notebook in which he had been studiously scribbling.

“Work never stops, hm Ponder? At least when _I_ say I’m taking a day off I can’t take my work with me!”

“It’s not work, Rufus!” exclaimed the wizard excitedly. “I think I’ve found a way of modifying the Omniscope so that it can be used in a portable capacity, wherever a wizard goes! He would never be out of touch! Look, if you...”

Drumknott smiled fondly as he listened to his friend explain his latest great plan for modifying university – “and everyone else’s of course!” – life. It was invariably refreshing to speak to someone else who was as enthused about their job as he was (possibly for different reasons, and Ponder would deny it to hell and back). Most people raised eyebrows when he mentioned work or Vetinari or his improved ringbinders; Ponder listened with almost flattering interest. As long as he wasn’t off daydreaming about improvements to his beloved Hex, or filing systems, that is.

Eventually Ponder wound down his impromptu lecture on the development of communication at the University enough to ask, “But what about you? I admit it’s good to see you this side of midday; I’m sorry I had to change the usual time, but my lectures got moved to post-lunch in the vain hope that somebody might actually turn up.” In answer to Drumknott’s puzzled expression, he added, “No, no, nobody _does_ turn up, but _I_ should really be there, it’s the look of the thing... it’s not enough that I’m holding the place together with paperclips and old glue! ... Literally, in some cases.” He ended _sotto voce_ and coughed awkwardly.

Drumknott laughed and nodded. He could well understand that being the case up at the University; Ponder was beyond invaluable, though none of them realised. He was overcome with a wave of gratitude that not only was his employer endowed with more brainpower than an Igor’s tank collection, but actually _appreciated_ his work into the bargain. It was only when Ponder’s face morphed into something approaching a smirk that he realised he’d been smiling dreamily as he thought this. Damn.

“Any luck on that front, then?” enquired Ponder innocently, transparently attempting to smother a grin.

Three responses streaked through Drumknott’s head in an instant, none of them exactly what he was searching for. After a couple of seconds of trying to capture the correct phrase with the maximum amount of sarcasm and irony, he went with: “Nnno”.

“Why don’t you just-”

“No!” he exclaimed an octave higher, though at a quiet enough volume that nobody paid any attention.

“Rufus-”

“ _Ponder_.”

The wizard rolled his eyes. “I’ve done my digging, Rufus, that’s all I’ll say. People who have been here from the start know he was involved. He is, at the very least, sympathetic.”

They had had this conversation every fortnight for years. Drumknott’s next line ran something to the effect of a scandalised, “ _You cannot broach the issue of a relationship with the ruler of the City!_ ”, with varying inflection. This time, however, something was different. This time, he could try a different tack.

“And how is your young lord?” Rufus said, plastering a smirk over the nerves he felt jumping around inside him any time Vetinari was brought up. Ponder turned scarlet in an instant and buried his nose studiously in his tea, on which he promptly choked.

Once Drumknott had ascertained that twelve posts at the University weren’t about to become suddenly and unfortunately vacant, he sat back and waited, fighting back a grin ( _it worked! I’ll have to make sure_ that _relationship continues for the long term_ ), until Ponder assumed a less contorted, if equally scarlet, mien. He finished his cup and licked his lips awkwardly, still not making eye contact. Drumknott’s (lack of) love life had clearly been forgotten. He congratulated himself on a job well done.

“Da- uh- young Lord Mintry is not _my_ lord, Rufus...” Ponder’s voice acquired a plaintive keen. “I mean... come on man, we’ve known each other for years and well... I’m not exactly a catch, am I? What Lord in waiting is going to want anything to do with the neurotic one with an eye for figures – and _not_ the supposedly interesting kind – and _glasses_ on top of it all, for the gods’ sake!”

Drumknott adjusted his own and raised an eyebrow, amused. Ponder panicked and scowled. “I don’t mean like _you_ , Rufus, I mean _look_ at you, you’re _gorgeous_ , I’m just-”

 “The holder of twelve different University posts and cute to boot?” the other grinned, leaning nonchalantly back in his chair. This was going to be a _fun_ evening.  “You’re a prestige partner all wrapped up in one parcel, Ponder... and did I mention cute? Look in a mirror someday, the University must have _some_ that aren’t imbued with nightmares. And anyway, you’ve had _far_ more partners than I have over the years, so you must be doing _something_ right.”

“ _That’s not for lack of demand, Rufus Drumknott, and you know it!_ ” hissed Ponder, leaning across the table. “If you weren’t-”

“ _Anyway_ ,” interrupted Drumknott, steering the conversation back away from dangerous territory, “Haven’t the pair of you been taking tea together every day for the last fortnight? Really, man, you’d think by now you would have mastered the art of asking someone out. Or rather, asking them... _in_.” He was enjoying himself immensely.

Ponder looked increasingly distressed. He had run out of tea. “That’s just- friendly, Rufus! That’s probably the way everyone acts when they’re not – you know – the neurotic one with glasses. That’s _normal_.”

Drumknott nodded sagely. “I see. So he just walks you to all your classes, meets you in all his breaks, _even when there is Ploughman’s Pie on the menu_ and walks you to your room after hours because he wants to be your _friend_. I understand.” Sarcasm dripped off him in waves.

Ponder pouted, looking torn between accepting this logic and continuing to wallow in self-pity. “I don’t see why you get to lecture me, Rufus. You’re not exactly the poster boy for sensible relationship conduct...”

Drumknott resisted the urge, yet again, to tell the wizard that you _can’t_ just proposition the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork (the man had ears in every wall, and they were sat very close to two of them; bringing up his name was almost certain to set off some kind of secret Assassin alarm bell). It wasn’t worth the risk. It was a miracle he didn’t already know. Unless he did. Drumknott made a face and finished the last of his gently smoking beverage; he had been down _that_ road about five times that _week_ , and he could do without it spoiling a full day off. He would have to try and sort this other issue out somehow though; the pair of them were clearly oblivious and the theoretical power imbalance of pupil and (supposed) lecturer made it hard for either to act. A middleman was needed.

Just as he came to this conclusion and prepared to float it to his companion, he paled suddenly, eyes fixed on a point behind the wizard’s left ear, his expression melting into dull horror like wax. Ponder started to turn in his seat, but Drumknott grabbed his wrist to still him. “Don’t move,” he said. “Just. Don’t move.”

“Who-”

“It’s _him_.”

“Who, _Lord V-_ ”

Ponder struggled to free himself as Drumknott hissed, “Of course not, you cloth-brained idiot, now sit _still_ , damn you, before he-... _shit._ ” This heartfelt comment was uttered into the depths of his now-empty glass as he searched for non-existent Sto Lat Courage before Moist von Lipwig ambled over genially, trailing a pretty young thing in his mid twenties. Adora was nowhere to be seen.

“Rufus, my dear man, _how_ are you? We don’t see enough of each other any more.” He pouted a little, eyes sparkling, before turning to the table’s other occupant. “And the great Mr Stibbons of UU, delighted! Delighted. Now I know what you’re thinking, what is this happily married man doing here of all places?”

Rufus was in fact thinking nothing of the sort, his thoughts running more to the _Please Leave_ variety, with a dash of panic and perhaps a soupçon of embarrassment. _Of all the past lovers he could have had... he had to pick the pretty one with the loud mouth that ended up in Vetinari’s pocket._

“Got to keep up with the old pals, now I’m a respectable man,” Moist continued, wilfully oblivious. Drumknott resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “There’s really nowhere so good for a chat as the old Garden. After all, _you’re_ not here for the delicacies either, are you Rufus?” He grinned.

Drumknott delicately sipped at the dregs of his drink, nostrils flaring, and ignored him. Ponder suddenly found something very interesting he had missed in his notebook and began scribbling furiously.

Just as Drumknott looked up to tell Lipwig just where he could put his delicacies, a vision (one of those scary ones that leaves people gibbering) in grey taffeta swished up, lithely linking her arm through the spare one of the youth, who looked as if all his Hogswatches had come at once. Drumknott grudgingly admitted internally that they probably had.

“Mr Drumknott. I do hope my husband isn’t giving you trouble.” She smiled sharply over at Moist, almost giving the impression of fangs.

“Certainly not, Miss Dearheart,” he replied gratefully. “It is always a pleasure to see our very own Golden Boy brightening up the world.” His smile took on an edge which might have been called _nasty_ had it not graced the face of a man often described as “characterless”.

Adora transparently attempted to hide her sudden grin; she had heard that one before.

“I’ll get him out of your way, Mr Drumknott. All _this_ -” she gestured disparagingly to the golden suit, “-can be rather distracting, can it not?”

As Moist opened his mouth indignantly to protest the innocence of his precious outfit, she left, arm still linked (through the young man) with Moist’s, who had no choice but to follow.

Drumknott smiled brightly after the pair of them with a grin that could probably cut glass.

Once they were safely out of eye- and earshot, he breathed out suddenly, clinging to his _still_ -empty glass like it was all that was anchoring him to the Disc.

Ponder finally looked up from his notes (consisting of the nineteen times tables written out in the curliest script imaginable) and smiled at the vision in front of him. His friend looked like he’d been drinking hard liquor for twelve hours. Now that was a concept. Maybe if he were drunk, he would-

“ _No_ , Ponder,” he sighed, expression torn between exasperation and amusement.

It was uncanny, the way he could do that. It was something he had picked up off Vetinari, and Ponder didn’t mind saying that it made him _very_ uncomfortable. Could the man read minds? Or had they just known each other too long? Probably the latter; it was a miracle they hadn’t settled for each other yet, given Ponder’s track record of relationships and Drumknott’s... lack of record of relationships. But then, the shadow of the Patrician is very long, and very dark. You could get lost in it. Frankly, Ponder fancied his chances more with wandering around the Library without a guide. Not that he’d considered it, of course.

“Shall we decant to the Comfy Chairs?” He changed the subject. “They never let me have the comfy chairs at the University. And you’ve got all day.”

This was a very good point. Drumknott was almost glad of his full day off; he hadn’t been to the Comfy Chairs in months.**

***

It was well past ten when the pair of them finally left the establishment; by that point Jemina had stopped moping and decided that she might meet nicer, less thieving girls by doing door duty instead of Benjamin.

The pair donned their Sinister Robes in preparation for their respective journeys home.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay at the University?” asked Ponder for the third time. “It’s so much closer than trekking all the way back to the Palace at this time of night.”

“I’d really rather trek back at ten than at five in the morning... he’d be bound to notice if I come in at that time, and _then_ what would he think?”

Ponder saw an opening, and dived through with all the tenacity of a spoon into the sugar-bowl. “That you’re in a relationship, clearly. Which, given that the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork is _off-limits even to his secretary with whom he basically cohabits_ -” his voice took on a sarcastic edge as Drumknott made desperate shushing noises at him in an effort to quell the tide “- should be perfectly acceptable. It’s none of his business.” He shoved his nose in the air then, after a beat, added, “Oh, don’t you want to make him a little... _jealous_?” with a mischievous grin which knocked ten years off his age.

Drumknott didn’t have to pretend to look affronted; he was _horrified._ “Ponder, how could you even suggest that? I doubt he even knows what jealousy is, let alone applies it to people like me!” He huffed out a laugh; the idea was patently ludicrous. And depressing, but he tried to focus on the hilarity.

“I’ll see you later, hm?” he pecked him on the cheek, “And _try_ and do something about your young man before I see you next, or I’ll have grey hairs worrying!”

Ponder stammered a reply, as usual reduced to monosyllables at the mention of his beau, and the pair departed for their separate beds.

***

On the topic of beds, Vetinari (obviously) hadn’t thought about his yet. He had, however, thought about other people’s, and who might be in them. He wasn’t a nosy man by nature; perhaps _concerned_ would be a more accurate descriptor. And currently he was extremely _concerned_ about the whereabouts of his clerk. He wasn’t back yet (according to his sources in the city) and it was past half ten. With work in the morning, Drumknott was not the type to roll in late the night before, though had little issue with staying up all hours when there was work to be completed.

Which meant...

Vetinari huffed frustratedly. Mr Fusspot, by now keeping a schedule similar to his owner, whined questioningly at the first noise since the replacement clerk had left at six.

Well, if the dog was awake, why should he not be taken for a walk? There remained yet another three hours of work – alone – ahead of him, and this would do to clear his head. (Part of Vetinari was furious that his head needed clearing _at all_ ; such a state of affairs was unthinkable.)

If this were to continue, he could only hope that Drumknott would not insist on his full Octeday every fortnight. He had come to rely on the solid unquestioning presence of his clerk to such an extent that returning to running the city without him would be... not difficult, per se; not challenging; but... different. And the Patrician much preferred life when tomorrow was, by and large, the same as yesterday.

 

 

*That is to say, not infamous at all.

** The Comfy Chairs is the name given to that area of the Garden where it is a little quieter and a little dimmer. Where there are cats which roam freely and little cakes on a Tuesday, Friday, and Octeday. It’s a sort of integrated cafe. And surprisingly, for somewhere where wizards are involved, it does indeed have comfy chairs. [for more on this topic, please see _Finders Keepers,_ a later publication]


	4. Chapter 4

Drumknott slid invisibly into the room at his usual time the next morning, bearing the usual tray and looking exactly the same as usual – to wit, a man who has adjusted to needing little sleep and has made it his new normal – tired but not exhausted. He had returned by a quarter to eleven the previous night – alone.

“Good morning, sir.” The usual tone, too. So far, reassuring.

“Good morning, Drumknott. I trust your day was enjoyable?”

“Yes, thank you sir. I appreciate your agreeing to the full day at such short notice.”

But the full day was in his contract. It may be said, however correctly or otherwise, that Vetinari possessed many vices, but inductive assumption based on previous fact was not one of them.

Drumknott set the tea tray in its usual place to the right of him and returned to his own desk, where he began organising his day’s work.

“Tell me, Drumknott,” said Vetinari into the productive silence, “Have you ever thought about marriage?” He didn’t have to explain himself; he was the Patrician. Drumknott’s loyalty had been so oft proven by this juncture that he would doubtless not consider the question odd. In any case, to do so wasn’t in his job description.

There was the most miniscule of pauses in the clerk’s actions, almost unnoticeable unless you had eyes like a hawk. The Patrician did.

“No sir, I cannot say that I have.”

Vetinari pressed the question. “Well if not marriage, then some form of... life partnership?”

As he looked over, he saw something curious and incredibly soft in Drumknott’s eyes for the second before he replied.

“Certainly, sir, I had entertained it.”

That was interesting. All these years and it appeared he hadn’t even _tried_ to find a partner, and here he was professing to entertain thoughts of life partnership. (A small, very quiet part of Vetinari’s vast brain piped up that that might imply that he was already _in_ some form of such a partnership, but it was quickly silenced by other, larger and more experienced nodes.)

Vetinari nodded and finally offered an explanation (not The explanation, it must be said, but certainly An explanation). “I mention this only as I know that your loyalty to your work is considerable, and I would not wish you to compromise your future happiness if it is to be found in other areas. As such, if you do meet someone with whom you might wish to make a life, I must impress upon you the import of leaving my service to pursue that end.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I assure you that that will not be necessary, my lord.” A small smile. Enigmatic, almost. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, which were strangely devoid of any emotion, almost as if they had been wiped blank.

Such odd phrasing. Vetinari quirked a smile in return, nodded, and let the matter rest.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been several months since Drumknott had taken that first full Octeday off, and the trend had, unfortunately, continued. Vetinari was by this point feeling keenly the lack of companionsh- that is to say, lack of implicit understanding which characterised his interactions with his clerk (due to the fact that, one day a fortnight, his clerk was not Drumknott).

The wizard he was meeting so regularly wasn’t the issue; Vetinari, with one foot in the Garden, knew all about his various liaisons (it paid to monitor the movements of a man which so much incidental power, even if he refrained from exercising it). It was more the fact that at this point, Vetinari had acknowledged that further action was required on his part if he were to ascertain the feelings of his clerk. Six years, after all, was quite long enough to spend in the dark – and here, as with so many other areas of his experience, he held the upper hand: Drumknott couldn’t even know whether he, Vetinari, would even countenance such a relationship, while he, Vetinari, knew for certain that Drumknott might.

It was time, then, for drastic measures. If he had to leave Vetinari’s sight, then perhaps giving him the means to be closer at hand would shed some light on the matter. If he still left the Palace after _this_ , Vetinari had made a serious misjudgement.

That was unthinkable.

***

It was 6pm when Vetinari stood up from the trade reports from Genua (which fact Drumknott knew as he had passed them on himself) and said to the room at large (containing as it did only Drumknott), “Please come with me.” He clicked his fingers for Mr Fusspot and walked out, clearly anticipating that Drumknott would do likewise.

Drumknott hastened to his feet, multiple ignominious Garden-related demises flitting idly through his head, even as he told himself that it was mere paranoia – he knew Vetinari was both sane and just, and he _knew_ his visits there would be unlikely to cause life- or job-threatening concern. He caught up with the Patrician quickly, hampered as the man was by the elderly canine, falling into step beside and just behind him.

“I believe it has been six years which you have given to this job, Drumknott.” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes, sir,” he nevertheless replied on impulse, taken aback by the comment. That wasn’t the expected topic at all. His next thoughts were, _he_ knows _it’s been six years... he probably knows to the day... so what is he planning?_

“Hmm.” was Vetinari’s only response.

They walked in silence (save for the wheezing which was dogging their footsteps) for a little while longer, to a wing of the Palace which Drumknott knew but had never had occasion to visit. His concern and curiosity had by now dissipated, to be replaced by the warm calm he felt after too long spent in the Patrician’s immediate presence.

The pair were halfway along another corridor when Vetinari again spoke, as though there had been no lull in the conversation. “I rather think is it time you were introduced, then.” He stopped abruptly before a door identical to those which had come before it.

 _Introduced...?_ thought Drumknott. Vetinari had never come all this way for a social call, surely. Visions of a myriad Leonard of Quirms secreted throughout the Palace danced briefly across Drumknott’s mind.

The Patrician flashed a smile over at his clerk and pushed open the door.

Drumknott had to suppress a gasp; partly due to his amazement that in all the years he had spent living and working at the Palace, he had never known this was here. The bright, airy room stretched far back the way they had come, illuminated by imposing gothic-style windows set along the opposite wall. Ranged back into darkness was shelf upon shelf of books, stretching up to the wood-panelled and delicately carved ceiling. Just inside the door was what could only be described as a “nook”, with several plush chairs and sofas, small tables and an enormous Klatchian rug on the floor dampening any sound.

Mr Fusspot, sensing comfort, waddled over to the nearest plush object and stood and whined at it until Vetinari obligingly lifted the bundle onto the chair, where he promptly curled into a ball and began snoring.

“I believe it rivals even that of the Unseen University for information which is pertinent to laymen such as ourselves,” Vetinari was saying behind Drumknott, who had wandered further into the room and for his part was still coming to terms with the near-infinite shelves stretching into nothing.

 _All the doors are dummies then,_ he thought, transfixed. _You could live in here._

“For all intents and purposes, Drumknott, it is yours.”

His world stopped in a heartbeat. Drumknott’s head snapped round so fast it was a miracle his spine remained intact.

“Sir?” he managed, eyes so wide an enterprising person could probably have sailed ships in them.

Vetinari turned away from him and towards the nearest window, a position for which he seemed to have a penchant, no matter that the view from the Library consisted of rather more greenery than did the foggy, smoky vista from the front of the Palace. “Given your position, I rather think that you are best placed to make use of its contents. While I myself read many of its offerings in my youth on my, shall we say, clandestine visits, it may also be of use to you. Use it as you will; I cannot foresee a termination to your employment in any immediate sense.”

This was quite a lot of information for Drumknott’s overwhelmed mind to process, his thoughts spinning between _“The_ Patrician _of_ Ankh-Morpork _has given me a_ library, _”_ _“He doesn’t foresee a termination of my employment in an_ immediate _sense? What does that mean?,” “A_ library! _”, “Don’t kiss him you idiot,”_ and, in an insidious little undertone with a healthy dose of smirk laid on, “ _That’s a courting gift and a half if ever I saw one...he can’t even_ look _at you..._ ” He slapped the fifth voice and tried to drag the rest of his thoughts into something resembling control.

And that had better be _quickly_ , before Vetinari commented on the lack of verbal response (emphasis on _verbal_ , as by this point Drumknott was fairly sure he was responding embarrassingly adequately in a non-verbal sense, prone as he was to inconvenient blushing). He swallowed and tried to inform his rapidly beating heart that its proper place was _inside_ his ribcage and not on the floor at his master’s feet. (He was by this point fairly sure that if Vetinari had been, as per Ankh-Morpork truth,* a vampire, the man would have been having a considerably more fraught time of it than Drumknott himself at maintaining a straight face. If the clerk had had bosoms, they would have been heaving.)

“My lord, this is...” _unprecedented? Too much? Incredibly attractive behaviour?_ “Breathtaking... I... I am unfortunately at a loss for words with which to convey my feelings.” _There are other methods, but I doubt you would approve._

For a second, Vetinari’s eyes glittered and there was a curve to the corner of his lips which had not been there previously. As fast as he noticed it, however, it was gone, prompting him to wonder if he’d imagined it after all.

“Consider it an extension to your current rooms, though I know you have little enough time to spend in them. This is the twenty-fourth door down. There is a bell between the second and third shelves, should you require anything when entertaining.”

Drumknott was sure he had the dazed look of someone who had just been clubbed vigorously round the head, and concentrated on preventing his jaw from hanging open and making him look a bloody fool. Well, more of a bloody fool, anyway, as he had already lost the power of speech. _You_ cannot _fling yourself at the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork!_ he repeated to himself for the third time since entering the room. It was proving an incredibly difficult task; far more so than usual. He leaned weakly against the nearest armchair and tried to stay silent (squeaking noises were _so_ undignified).

Oh, Ponder was going to have a _field_ day when he told him about this. He would have to Clacks him to meet him here; with almost thirty years of his life already gone he would need to read as fast as possible to deplete this place. When he thought of the number of books he had just been, for all intents and purposes, given, he struggled to conceal his emotions.

What was Vetinari playing at?

***

Vetinari left the library in the charge of his dumbfounded clerk, exceedingly pleased with himself. Presented with such an array of reading material, it was unlikely he would now seek to leave the Palace voluntarily (and therefore there developed less chance of his being romantically blindsided by an attractive youth), and furthermore, his considerable intelligence would lead him to wonder as to Vetinari’s motives. Once Stibbons got involved, there was a high chance that they would talk themselves round to the correct conclusion.

He bent down and picked up the perpetually exhausted Mr Fusspot (who had, with the unerring instincts of a devoted canine, trotted out with his master), and patted him gently on the head, smiling somewhat introspectively. Drumknott had had the expression of, if one will pardon the expression, the thoroughly well-shagged during the entire time that he, Vetinari, had been speaking. Oh yes, he had high hopes for the future of that library.

 

 

* A special kind of truth known to many other nations as a Fisherman’s Tale, or Idle Gossip.


	6. Chapter 6

Octeday rolled around, as it so often did, in a reliable enough manner. Another day on which Vetinari regrettably found himself possessed of no Drumknott (which, he reminded himself sternly, was the usual way of things; he did not _possess_ his secretary... yet). Thankfully, however, this time the pair had decided on tea in the Library, both being rather less fond of alcoholic beverages than much of Ankh-Morporkian society required. Stibbons had sworn off it in his youth, due to the rather unfortunate incident with the Thing from Holy Wood; certainly Drumknott could outdrink a dwarf with no ill effects (and indeed had on several occasions, though that is a story for another time), but when there _were_ no ill effects it rather took the fun out of the activity on a casual basis.

They were currently sat by the enormous fire (sensibly behind two or three delicately embroidered iron fireguards, a specialty of a certain clan of dwarfs who recognised that those with money would pay it for something ostensibly rare and beautiful), with a tea service arrayed in front of them and a few piles of books, discerningly collected, amassed around them. To an onlooker, they could have been sat there for years, which indeed was what it felt like to Drumknott. This, _this_ was home. He could get used to this.

He finished pouring another cup of tea each from the apparently bottomless teapot and pushed the biscuits closer to the wizard.

“Have you calmed down yet, Ponder?” He tried to grin, but the overwhelming sensation of awe which accompanied it (he had been _given_ a _library!_ ) transformed his face into that of the beatifically grateful and adoring retainer, somewhat spoiling the effect. Ponder himself grinned into his teacup. There was no way on the Disc that this wasn’t the biggest hint known to man. Certainly, it might take a while to convince Rufus of that, but there was no doubt in his not-inconsiderable mind. He may be socially inept at the best of times, but matters such as these were simple mathematics.

“Certainly.” Ponder removed his nose from his teacup, all amusement studiously eradicated. “Only... do you think I could visit occasionally? It is ever so nice to use a library which doesn’t smell of bananas, and where the books aren’t actively trying to kill you.”

Drumknott beamed. “Of course, Ponder! Um... His Lordship would have no objection to that, at any rate...” A confused pause. “I’m not... sure what he intended by all this. Does he want me to read everything? Is it a test? Does he want me to read something specific?”

“Does he just want you?” finished Ponder innocently enough, sniggering and prompting Drumknott to choke on his pensive sip of tea.

“I rescind my previous offer, Mr Stibbons; you may ask the Patrician yourself.” Internally, Drumknott was screaming. The heresy! Within the Palace walls! He knew for a fact that the scorpions had only ever been a paper tiger, but then even paper tigers can give you quite a nasty papercut in the right circumstances.

Thus, in order to avoid becoming the first of two new victims of an imaginative new method of killing people, he changed the topic. An obvious ploy, perhaps, but by the time Ponder ever realised, it was far too late, and the damage (in Ponder’s view) had been done.

“Tell me how the wooing of your Lord-in-waiting is going – have you two finally managed to see eye-to-eye?” He waited the obligatory three seconds before the wizard’s brain rejoined the programme, derailed as it inevitably was after any mention of the (delightful, by all accounts) young Lord Mintry.

Unfortunately, the requisite application of brain power caused Ponder’s face to crumple immediately. “He’s not... he doesn’t... he likes women, Rufus. I’ve determined this for certain.” The look on Ponder’s face would have broken Drumknott’s heart if the words hadn’t been so _utterly_ ludicrous.

“ _How?_ ” was the incredulous response. He actually had to set down his teacup in shock.

“He told me?” Ponder already looked like a beached flounder; flapping and very confused.

Drumknott almost laughed out loud, but managed to settle for an indelicate snort. Ponder’s look of confusion deepened, and Drumknott took pity on him, leaning forwards, all traces of mirth vanished. “He’s acting like a man in, if not love, then deep infatuation. And you tell me he’s not one of us? Ridiculous.” He sat back, contented as an Omnian priest in the knowledge that he was correct. “No, mark my words, he’ll come round in the end. Probably hasn’t even realised what his feelings are yet, poor little sod.” After a beat, he continued, “Anyway, why in the name of the sainted Errata did he tell you this? A bit presumptuous, isn’t it?”

“Well, you see, Rufus... oh dear, this is terribly awkward; I suppose I rather brought this on myself... ah... you see, there is a... tradition – as you know, I am Master of the Traditions at the University now, as nobody else wanted to take the job, and well, we fell to talking, as one does, about work, and so I... I told him about this new one I’d discovered, during my research into the possibility of some recognition for the students who are...” he gestured vaguely at the space between them, “Like us.”

Recognising that he was getting into the swing of things, as he often did when speaking on behalf of that population of the students, Drumknott smiled encouragingly over the cup he was nursing in two hands.

“It transpires that, oh, about a century ago, there was a Tradition wherein wizards of a certain rank would take... well, for all intents and purposes “partners” from among the academic body, according to their wishes-” Drumknott’s eyebrows immediately vanished into his hairline and a brilliant grin began to spread over his face as he saw where this was going, “- and each would, oh, cook and clean and take messages for the other, and it meant, you know, as we are, um, celibate, um, that is to say, we don’t fraternise with women-” Drumknott snorted, “- that a wizard would have someone to, ah... spend time with... for the long term...” Ponder’s voice was becoming dangerously high-pitched with nerves; he’d bring the dogs running if he went much further.

“Have a drink, dear,” Drumknott refilled his cup and again indicated the sadly neglected biscuits. Ponder seemed to register that partaking of these offerings meant that he wouldn’t have to speak, and suddenly there were rather more crumbs, and rather fewer biscuits, than there had been for the past few hours. “But do go on,” he continued, “I’m intrigued; you can’t very well stop now.”

Ponder had, however, lost his momentum in sugary mires, and had some trouble starting up again. “Um... so there’s this Tradition, yes, which I told you about, and, well... well apparently cohabiting wasn’t all they did, ahah... it rather fell out of use in recent years, probably Snapcase’s influence, but, well... I told him about it. Work, you know – and he was ever so interested; he always is, he’s always so eager to learn... funny he doesn’t seem to like going to lectures though...” Drumknott rolled his eyes in exasperation at his friend’s wilful idiocy. “Anyway, we parted ways and that was that and we saw each other around and then last Friday he-” Ponder was fiddling frantically with his fingernails, eyes darting everywhere as if the library might also hold the means of speech without requiring him to in fact speak, “He says to me, “In the grand Tradition of wizards of yore, I ask you, Ponder Stibbons, holder of multiple posts which I cannot be bothered to list at this precise moment, to partner with me, in a distinctly Traditional fashion,” followed by the aforementioned assurance that he was really into girls (if he were allowed) and it was just a bit of fun! I mean- I _mean_ , what is a man to think? Everyone knows I speak for the, well, _minority students_ , that is, everyone who ever listened. And he listens! He _must_ know!”

The look on Ponder’s face reminded Drumknott of one of the myriad Palace cats, with their curiously flat, human faces, soft little ears and enormous round eyes, imparting the vague feeling that you had stolen their tuna.

“Ponder,” he started, “Did it ever occur to you that he was afraid to be perceived to be propositioning a member of academic staff? A very _influential_ member of academic staff?”

“Oh, yes,” replied the wizard, “It had occurred to me, but well, he was so certain of it. Absolutely blasé. Plays along with it and everything.”

Drumknott’s brain took a second to process that; he just _stared_. “I’m sorry,” he said incredulously, “Did you say he _plays along_? With the... the cooking, and the cleaning, and the... other things?”

“Well yes, we share an apartment some... days-” Drumknott let out a short bark of laughter and muttered something into his fresh teacup, “- and he’s making arrangements to stay down for the academic break this Hogswatch, to try and get in some studying away from family, you know, and, well... he doesn’t go to the Garden. Ever. That’s absolutely certain,” he finished defensively.

“I take it all back,” said Drumknott wearily. “This is a man besotted, and the worst part is, _he doesn’t even know!_ He’s clearly interested in you, Ponder, I just... don’t think he knows what that means. Happily,” he clapped his hands together, “We are in a library, and there are bound to be some reference books concerning how best to inform your lover that they are, in point of fact, your lover, and not some sort of strange... friendship arrangement.”

At this point, there was a knock at the door, giving the two men just enough time to glance at each other in confusion, before it admitted the figure of Lord Vetinari, who smiled benignly.

“Please excuse the intrusion, gentlemen – no, Drumknott, do sit down, you are on your day off – I am merely looking for a book, if that is agreeable.”

There was a lull, which began to stretch on somewhat. It dawned on Drumknott that the Patrician was waiting for an answer. “Of- of course, my lord,” he managed, more than a little flabbergasted.

Vetinari inclined his head with a small smile and swept past, into the depths of the shelving. Ponder watched him vanish, before murmuring (as one could never be too careful when Vetinari’s ears are involved), “At least here there’s no chance a book will decide he looks like a tasty snack. I really do hope you’re allowed to give people permission to come here, Rufus; it’s so much _safer_.”

Drumknott was fighting back a smirk at this point, determined not to say out loud that books weren’t the only things in the vicinity that might think the Patrician a snack. Thankfully Ponder quickly registered the atmosphere (in that indefatigable manner of the community everywhere when a Gay Joke™ rears its head), thought back over his previous words, and joined in the general merriment surrounding the table.

“In all seriousness though,” said Drumknott after he’d managed a couple of mouthfuls of lukewarm tea (they’d have to get another pot up), “We have plenty of time this afternoon to get started on the Gardening section. Or Wizardry, possibly. Communication could be worth a try as well.”

He got up and rang the bell for more tea. “This could be a long evening, Mr Stibbons.”

***

By the time Ponder had vacated the premises at around nine at night, they had discovered no specific methods of dealing with the problem – though plenty of more general, and dare it be said, more _direct_ ones. Drumknott decided to continue on his own; all he would do in any event was read, so it may as well be something useful in the short term. He was making a concerted effort to leave books back as he finished with them, as it would be far too easy to surround himself with half the library without realising it.

On one such foray into the shelves of the vast repository, Drumknott finally discovered something useful. Perhaps not for the reasons that Ponder had hoped, however. It was shocking. Exhilarating. _This_ was information with which he could work (a little voice at the back of his brain decried the abandonment of camaraderie in the face of individual aspirations; the writing in front of him successfully drowned it out).

There, in plain black and white, in a small volume detailing the (badly-spelled and poorly-edited) history of the Lemming Garden, were the words:

_Fownder adn Prim Benefactr: Havelock, Lord Vetinari_

At least they had managed to spell the last three words right. Possibly there had been incitement involved. He read it again, certain he must have missed some form of joke. He flipped back to the front cover. It certainly didn’t seem like a book in the humour genre.

Drumknott’s heart skipped a little every time he read the vital line; at this rate he was in for some form of cardiac arrest. He shut his eyes and arranged his thoughts.

 _1) Clearly he does not despise us. This I knew already._  
_2) To be involved is to belong; in Ankh-Morpork nobody concerns themselves with another’s dealings, unless it is profitable to them personally._  
 _3) Then again, Vetinari has been the champion of the non-human species, and is thus inclined towards charity, however much he may despise the term._  
 _4) We cannot assume he is one of us._  
 _5) But he, for all intents and purposes, has given me this book, so may I not enquire as to its veracity?_  
 _6) And then what?_

And then, what occurred was that Drumknott awoke with a crick in his neck, an inexplicable blanket draped over him, and the book he had been reading neatly placed on the table next to him. He contemplated wondering who had done these deeds, but decided that by far the easiest option, and the one most likely to allow him to sleep again that night for heart palpitations, was that a maid had remembered there was a teapot missing and removed it surreptitiously. He drifted back off to sleep, supremely unaware of the long shadow which watched him in the chair to his left.

The shadow, though no-one could see it, smiled into the darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Drumknott awoke the next morning at his usual time, as the dawn just began to break. He blinked and squinted; the light creeping in windows around four times the size of him was a veritable stream compared to that in his own room. He checked his watch and sighed; if he ran, he might have time to complete his morning ablutions before work.

And so it was that at half six on the dot, as usual, he pushed open the door to the Oblong Office and greeted Vetinari, setting the tray on his desk while stifling a yawn. It transpired passing the night on an armchair was not particularly conducive to restful sleep.

“Good morning Drumknott,” The Patrician smiled up at him as he always did, and picked up his croissant. “I trust you slept well?”

Drumknott’s face twisted into a wry, somewhat sheepish smile. “I expect you know, my lord, that I did not.” There was no response from Vetinari other than a politely raised eyebrow. Drumknott, who had had time to think over his brief period of wakefulness as he bathed, found himself, as usual, incredibly impressed with the Patrician’s skill of subterfuge. Even if it had not been he who had visited the library in the night, he would certainly have been aware of the whereabouts of his staff in the morning. He had eyes everywhere.

“I’m afraid I found myself falling asleep in the library, my lord,” he looked down for a fraction of a second and was almost _certain_ he spied the Patrician smiling into his pastry. However, when he replied, there was no sign of the brief twinkle in his eye.

“I hope it will not prove a hindrance, Drumknott,” Vetinari said, somehow managing to make a statement which should have sounded mildly threatening into a pussycat of a phrase with no claws.

“No, my lord – I shall endeavour not to make a habit of it. I’m afraid I got a little carried away with some research which myself and Mr Stibbons took it upon ourselves to carry out.” He paused briefly, then ploughed on, while they were still discussing non-work-related issues. “My lord, I hope this is not presumptuous, but-” Vetinari’s head didn’t quite _snap_ up, but certainly his eyes narrowed a little with concerted concentration, “May Mr Stibbons occasionally have use of the library here? Only he said he admired its rather safer and less orang-utan-filled climes.”

Vetinari waved the question away airily, with something which looked, to the astute watcher, like a tinge of disappointment clouding his features. “It is your library, Drumknott, you may do as you wish. Short of burning it down, of course.”

Drumknott felt his heart speed up despite all efforts to force it to remain as it was. He swallowed. “Thank you, my lord.”

***

As the weeks wore on, Drumknott took to perusing the library in the evenings, before spiriting himself off to bed for a few hours. He had not broached the topic of the Lemming Garden book, which had found a new home in his bedside cabinet, and was leafed through, in case of errors by its reader, several times a week. The words remained the same, however: poorly-spelled and utterly damning.

If damning was the word he wanted.

It was past ten in the evening when the occupants of the Oblong Office finally set down their respective quills and neatly piled their respective sheaves of paper. Drumknott approached the Patrician’s desk and gathered up the remains of the day for filing, while Vetinari, as was his wont, gazed with narrowed eyes at a point just above the door lintel, his fingers steepled in front of him. It was something of a ritual; Drumknott supposed it served as a kind of meditation, allowing the man to disconnect briefly from ruling the city with no fear of repercussion. Certainly in sleep there would be no such luxury – alone in a bedroom, one had to be constantly on guard against potential attack.

Drumknott smiled to himself as he imagined the manner in which that situation might be rectified.

“Are you adjourning to the library, Drumknott?” Vetinari eventually asked, after his secretary had stowed the requisite papers and tidied his own desk to his satisfaction.

“Why, yes, my lord, I had intended to.” Drumknott turned, a little surprised. “Is there something with which I may assist you?”

“No, no, I merely wondered if I might accompany you. I would appreciate a change of scenery, I think.” No longer the cold, hard Patrician –this was the cold, hard Vetinari, _quite_ another kettle of trout entirely. Namely, the trout had turned out to be goldfish, elegant and unthreatening.*

“Of course, my lord. I would welcome your presence.” _And a few other things, if it came to that_.

Vetinari rose lithely from his place behind the desk. “Shall we?” he indicated the door, implying that Drumknott should precede him – which he did, but quickly, like a startled minnow, as though he felt it was inappropriate. Which, he reminded himself, technically it _was._ His place was behind the Patrician, not in front of him.

He assumed his more usual position with some relief as they began the walk to the other wing, and tried to focus on enjoying the extra time in Vetinari’s company.

 

 

*Although, like the _Betta splendens_ , prone to attacking its peers if left in close confines therewith.


	8. Chapter 8

It was unclear what, exactly, Vetinari had been seeking when he accompanied Drumknott to the library. He disappeared immediately, and by the time Drumknott had acquired the evening’s reading, was already seated in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, quietly engrossed in an unobtrusive black volume. He was seated in the chair opposite the one which Drumknott habitually used, and the secretary spent an eternity of agonised seconds once he emerged from the shelves trying to decide whether to continue as usual, or to allow the Patrician his solitude. Eventually he reasoned to himself that Vetinari in all likelihood _knew_ where his favoured seat was, and he had said he would welcome _company_ , so he bit the proverbial arrow and settled himself demurely opposite the Patrician.

Vetinari looked up briefly and smiled enigmatically. Drumknott’s answering smile, once he had recovered from the shock, lingered for far longer, well past the introduction and acknowledgments and into the first chapter.

The two books he had chosen proved, within half an hour, to be useless to his cause. There remained enough of the evening to perhaps try a couple more. Vetinari, who was now gazing into the fire like a man who had communed with the gods, looked round when he stood, immediately ascertaining his intent, and said, “I might find something else myself. It was a lighter read than I anticipated.” He waved away Drumknott’s stalled offer to leave the book back for him, with the dry response, “Frankly, working in an office all day, I need the exercise.”*

Thus the pair found themselves, ruler and secretary, walking side by side through the arches and shadows of the great library, as though they were, after all, simply men.

“My lord,” Drumknott spoke into the crisp silence as they wandered slowly along the shelves, leisurely searching for a book which might be of relevance to their respective tasks. Vetinari looked over with a raised eyebrow and an open expression, and Drumknott very nearly lost heart. The shadows were doing wonders for the Patrician’s chiselled features, and Rufus was, after all, only human. He swallowed and forged onwards; communicating out of working hours was a rare enough gift that he was unsure when it might next arise.

“While looking into Ponde- that is, into Mr Stibbons’ current predicament, I discovered a book which was written some dozen-odd years ago, about a – well, about the Lemming Garden and Biome of Trilobites, sir.” He waited a beat; Vetinari of course made no response other than perhaps a hum. Though it could have been something in the walls. “I, ah... noticed your name was included as a prime benefactor. If I may be somewhat impertinent... is that statement... correct?”

Vetinari smiled more openly now, his piercing blue eyes perhaps a little softer than usual. “Yes, indeed. The needlessly persecuted under Snapcase were many and varied, and with the requisite capital and influence I was in a unique position to assist.” A short pause, weighted with the implication that Vetinari was thinking over his next words. (He was not. As was his wont, he had had this planned for weeks.) “In times of crisis, we always seek to support our own, do we not?”

Drumknott didn’t quite gasp, but he started almost imperceptibly to anyone who wasn’t Havelock Vetinari, his eyes widening. He stared somewhat thoughtfully, somewhat shocked, into the middle distance, that most comforting and useful of spaces, as he sifted any number of rejoinders through his head. There was nothing for it but to ask outright; he essentially had already received his answer, and realistically, the worst reaction from the Patrician would be laughter. He had dealt with worse. He breathed in slowly and calmly and licked his lips, still speaking to the books ahead of them.

“Would I be correct, then, in assuming that, in other circumstances – that is to say, in which you were not the Patrician – you would be... a patron?”

Vetinari did smile this time; the sort of smile one normally uses secretly, behind one’s hand, for example when the person you are drinking with relates the tale of the time when they saved a kitten from certain death in trying circumstances. “Certainly.” No fanfare, no bashfulness, just _certainly_. Classic Vetinari style.

Drumknott swallowed. “In which case, my lord,” he continued down the path he had thus laid for himself, aware that the chance would be unlikely to reoccur, “I hope you will forgive this grievous breach of etiquette,” he said, before he leaned forwards and kissed him.

It was, Drumknott thought, a perfectly innocent, chaste kiss, the likes of which would cause little consternation to a man who habitually carried three knives on his person at all times. Vetinari, however, clearly had other ideas; Drumknott found himself herded up again _Horticulture; Decorative_ with something approaching a vengeance, thudding into the (thankfully substantial) shelves with an exhalation which was quickly swallowed by the application of the other man’s lips. He couldn’t restrain a groan as Vetinari proceeded to give him a very indepth lesson in Quirmian kissing.

He also couldn’t quite decide what to do with his hands; everywhere seemed too intimate, given the identity of the other party, but he was damn well _kissing_ the man! Or, well... being kissed. Very thoroughly. Vetinari then did something positively _criminal_ with his tongue and Drumknott threw caution to the winds and proceeded to give as good as he got – until, due to such inconsequentialities as breathing, they were forced to break apart. Vetinari wasn’t finished, however, and transferred his attention to Drumknott’s jaw, holding his head _terribly_ gently but incredibly firmly and kissing slowly down towards his collar as the younger man fought for some form of breathing consisting of something other than gasps and moans.

 “Now that you have had ample time to regret your decision, please do let me know if this is unwelcome,” Vetinari murmured into Drumknott’s neck.

“No!” Drumknott said, possibly too fast. That said, he doubted Vetinari, who was incredibly focused on his exposed skin, was in a position to judge. “Please... no.” He ran his free hand up into Vetinari’s hair, holding him where he was (and, happily enough for Drumknott, where he wanted to be; if he had wanted to leave, all the hands in the world couldn’t have held him).

Vetinari continued speaking against his throat, doing very little for his composure. “I should warn you then, that-”

“Bugger that,” said Drumknott vehemently, dragging him up again for a kiss which would have shocked the studious gardeners whose work they were so enthusiastically ignoring. “Respectfully, sir,” he gasped when they parted, “I think at this point I am quite well-placed to know your manners myself. No disclaimers required.”

“ _I_ think in the circumstances we can dispense with the honorifics. Rufus.” Vetinari replied, the corner of his mouth twitching infinitesimally.

“Yes s- m- _Havelock..._ ” This last was uttered on a shuddering exhale as Vetinari nipped at Drumknott’s neck just below the jaw and he ended up clinging rather desperately to both the shelves behind him and the robe of the man in front, all thoughts completely disassembled. Attempts to regulate his breathing failed in ignominy as Vetinari continued to draw a path of kisses and bites down to his collar. Eventually, it got too much for Drumknott’s expertly shattered nerves and he pulled Vetinari away and into a burning kiss, hands roaming freely across the plains on offer.

“I’m not sure,” remarked Vetinari, gratifyingly breathless as Drumknott began making short work of his outer buttons, “we are quite young enough to be engaging in this activity in a library, Rufus. We must consider the books, after all.”

Drumknott was sorely tempted to reply _Bugger the books_ , a sentiment which appeared to show clearly on his face, for Vetinari chuckled and continued, “Come to bed with me.”

Drumknott responded by flinging himself at the other man with such enthusiasm that the shelves opposite labelled _Grammar;_ _Advanced_ very nearly met an inglorious end with their contents strewn across the floor.

“ _Yes_ , Havelock,” he said breathlessly when they drew apart. Rather sorrowfully, he sighed then, and began slowly doing up the buttons he had managed to liberate from their threaded prisons, while running hands over far more of the other’s person than was strictly, in the circumstances, necessary.

“Remind me to always have you dress me,” Vetinari commented drily, although the tone was belayed by the glint in his eyes. “Somehow it increases enjoyment tenfold.”

“Only tenfold?” smirked Drumknott, focused on the buttons. “I must have lost my touch.”

Vetinari almost _growled_. Drumknott became aware in an instant of two things: firstly, that the room was far too warm, and secondly, that they were both wearing _far_ too many clothes for V- Havelock to be making noises like _that_. He dragged himself away from the immediate person of the Patrician with considerable reluctance, aware that if he didn’t, the aforementioned activity would likely end up taking place in the library after all.

The pair made their way to the door in their own time to avoid further distraction, Drumknott feeling utterly dishevelled as he fiddled with his tie knot and Vetinari looking typically pristine.

“I look forward to ascertaining whether my appraisal of your reaction to being gifted this place was accurate.” Vetinari’s eyes acquired a rather wicked glint, and Drumknott almost didn’t like to ask the question which he knew Vetinari wanted of him:

“And what was that, s- ah, that is, what was your appraisal?”

“That your expression upon receipt appeared to be that of the thoroughly well-shagged,” Vetinari remarked blandly, before sweeping out the door and on down the long hall. Drumknott’s brain took a couple of seconds to catch up with the language which _the_ _Patrician of Ankh-Morpork_ had just used so casually. He may or may not have clung to the doorframe while he processed this. He _certainly_ didn’t make any kind of noise (that would be undignified).

When the correct signals were finally filed in the right places, he fairly sprinted down the corridor after him.

***

Drumknott turned over onto his back and sighed. Vetinari had definitely got his wish, and then some. “Thoroughly well-shagged” didn’t even begin to describe the state in which he found himself.

Unfortunately, however, he doubted that staying the night would be on the agenda. Vetinari would want his own space, surely, and then there was the age-old issue of turning up to work in yesterday’s clothes (and yes, so Vetinari _was_ work and thus wouldn’t be in a position to be making idle assumption, due to also being the cause of the second issue, but occasionally Drumknott spoke to junior clerks, and the last thing he wanted from them was idle gossip). He therefore utilised all the clerkly skills he had in his possession to slip quietly from between the sheets and reach for the nearest item of clothing.

“I don’t think so, Rufus,” Vetinari remarked, hand closing languorously, but vice-like, on Drumknott’s wrist. “After all, we work in the same office; surely it is only expedient we sleep in the same bed.”

“Bu-”

“There is a passage outside from the corridor to your rooms where you can acquire a change of clothes in the morning, if that is your concern,” Vetinari said, closing his eyes but retaining his grip on Drumknott’s arm. “Come back to bed, Rufus.”

And who was he to refuse him? Even if they had been of equal social stature, Drumknott was certain that he would always be drawn to the person of Havelock Vetinari, would always seek to please him to the best of his ability.

“And stop _thinking_ , Rufus,” the voice was exasperated but gratifyingly content, “You have all day to do that. Sometimes life is as simple as staying. Here.” He gave the wrist a tug, pulling Drumknott closer.

The other smiled in the grey darkness and folded himself back under the covers, turning to watch the profile of his lover as he drifted into sleep.

 

 

* Somewhere over in the Unseen University, the reality resonator pinged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I realise I used the Quirmian kissing quip in the Young Assassins, but I wrote this one first, and I like it, damnit, so it had to stay.)


	9. Epilogue

The year had worn on, Sektober bringing its sharp winds and biting atmosphere. Rufus Drumknott found himself once again in front of the dread portal on the damp and dreary street, having not visited the place in weeks.

The words were spoken; the door opened; he was assailed immediately with glittering noise and, closer at hand, the strident tones of Jemina, who, from her monologue, had found herself yet again single and hating it. He spared her a wan smile and a wish that things might improve imminently, before submerging himself in the Garden proper.

Now, where was he... the wizards had excelled themselves since he had been gone; there were more corners than ever before. Ponder could be anywhere.

Some ten minutes later, after a scrupulous sweep of the room table by table, Rufus located the wizard – without his hat, which was what caused the issue – and noted with some mirth that he was not alone. About, in fact, as alone as one can be with another man draped across your lap as though he had grown there. Rufus took the time to stifle his smile before approaching the couple.

“Master Stibbons,” he grinned and bowed cheekily, prompting Ponder to blush and consequently his companion’s expression to melt into one of complete adoration, “And Lord Mintry. Delighted to see you here at last, my lord.”

Mintry grinned charmingly and held out a hand; it was clear where the confidence lay in _that_ relationship. “Please, call me Damien.” Ponder’s eyes shone as he gazed down adoringly at his lapful of aristocracy.

Drumknott sat himself in the spare chair and helped himself to the tea which Ponder had had the foresight to acquire on arriving. “Pleased to meet you, Damien. I hope we will see more of you here.”

“ _On the topic of which_ ,” Ponder began pointedly, looking back up at his friend, “Where have you _been_? You’ve been putting off our tea for weeks now! Vetinari keeping you tied up?”

It was Drumknott’s turn to blush, always notoriously transparent regarding certain emotions - though he did, to his credit, refrain from choking on his newly-poured tea. It was a close call, however.

“I have been _busy with work,_ yes, Ponder,” he replied. “Although I had rather hoped to tell you exactly what I have been up to... though-” his eyes darted quickly to Ponder’s human-shaped blanket, “- it might be advisable to, ah...”

He changed tack, sensing that Ponder wasn’t getting the appropriate message. “Damien, I doubt Ponder would have the will to _tell_ you to do anything-”

“You’d be surprised,” smirked the young aristocrat, as Ponder simultaneously squawked, “Hey!”

“- so would you be a darling and get us something a little more... alcoholic?” He batted his eyelashes a few times for effect and shooed him off with a couple of dollars, as Ponder watched a little forlornly.

“So Ponder, I- Ponder. _Ponder_.” He snapped his fingers in front of the wizard, who started a little guiltily and paid attention to his friend. “While he’s away – well done, by the way, you haven’t got out of that conversation – I have some updated information for you regarding my own situation.” He dragged the chair round the table closer to the other, so he could speak in a whisper without being overly obvious. One had to be careful, after all.

Lord Damien Mintry, student wizard and heir to a pair of estates, started sharply at the sound of his partner’s voice from across the room, rising over the hubbub like a distressed swan (and accompanied by many of the flapping actions which might befit such a creature).

“ _You’re doing **what?!**_ ”

“Whom,” corrected Rufus quietly, hiding a smile in his teacup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I intended/intend Lord Damien Mintry to be trans, but I realised on my final draft that, as a cis person, I was doing an atrocious job of making that explicitly obvious without just being downright unrealistic and shoehorning it in (like, that doesn’t exactly come up in conversation with someone you’ve only just met (i.e. Rufus, from whose perspective most of this is)), so this is a note to say !! he’s trans!! 100%!!
> 
> I have been writing this for two months... All I wanted was to write a cute little thing where Ponder and Drumknott were best friends, and it ended up morphing into this monstrosity... anyway I had fun, I hope you did too! If you liked it, I am still incredibly enamoured of comments ;)


End file.
